Ritual
by Arwen Lune
Summary: These bones you bring me - I give them a face. I say their names out loud. I return them to their loved ones." An early Season 1 encounter between Brennan and Booth.


**Ritual**

_An early season 1 encounter_**  
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_That.. that MAN!_

Temperance Brennan strode through the long hallway of the Jeffersonian, the heels of her ankle boots sounding loud in the silence.

_You wouldn't understand, _he'd said. Who did he think he was to judge her like that? Sure, she was a scientist. Data and facts were her language of choice. That didn't make her an alien though, and certainly not the sociopath he made her out to be.

Just because she was a scientist didn't mean that nothing but science mattered.

She didn't excavate mass graves in Guatemala because it was enjoyable, or even interesting. Though perhaps is was interesting, but not the reason she did it. She stood in that pit for weeks on end because those victims had been done a double injustice – first murder, then erasal. There was a belief that said that a person was not truly dead until all traces of their existence had disappeared, and that is what the death squads had done there. She excavated mass graves because remembering the dead was important, and because those victims deserved to have their names back, deserved a proper burial with their name on a stone. And because she could not stop the injustice and the cruelty, but she could do this.

_You wouldn't understand._

She ran her ID card through the reader and grabbed a fresh lab coat from the cupboard. Slipping it on she wondered if he knew about the boxes and boxes of remains of First World war victims in her office. She didn't do that for science, either. She did it because it felt wrong that a life lived should end as a pile of bones without name.

_Oh no, but I wouldn't understand_, she thought with a bitter shake of her head. She put on a pair of gloves and bent over the remains of the young man that was the subject of their latest case. The remains of his skull, to be precise.

It was true that a cranial reconstruction was a test of skill and knowledge, but that wasn't why she enjoyed – for lack of a better word – doing it. There was something inherently satisfying in recovering what a murderer had erased; humanity, a face, a person. Once the skull was reconstructed Angela would be able to give the man a face, and there would be a name, a name the murdered had wanted gone forever.

It was as much a ritual as the man's subsequent burial would be, but one Booth apparently didn't appreciate. Because he was convinced that science and ritual were mutually exclusive. Convinced that detaching yourself meant that you didn't care.

She moved the pieces of the parietal bone into order and applied glue to the fragment of the occipital condyle she was holding.

An indeterminable amount of time later a cup was put on the table with a soft clank. She was just working on the tiny fragments of the impact point and ignored it. When the last of the shards of this section of the skull was in place she noticed that Booth had pulled up a chair and was watching her.

"_What_ are you doing?" she asked without looking away from the rows and rows of fragments. The end result of millions of years of evolution, bashed to oblivion with a sledgehammer, now grouped and then put into sequential order; ready to be restored. The irrational organised.

She caught the edge in her own words. Yes, she was annoyed. Angry even.

"Watching you work," he said after a moment, completely unnecessary. Then: "Your coffee is cold, now."

She took a swig anyway, glancing at him over the rim of the cup. He grimaced in distaste.

"Scientists can be recognised by their taste for cold coffee," she shrugged. "We learn as grad students."

He quirked a grin at that, eyes straying back to the table. He seemed fascinated by the process of the reconstruction. She'd never seen him this thoughtful.

"How can a pile of bone shards…" He trailed off. "Science, right?"

"I suppose you could compare it to a puzzle," she said, taking the reconstructed section back in hand. "I order the fragments into sections, and work from there."

"I thought Zach said the dental records…"

"Might be enough to identify him, yes."

"So why are you doing this?"

She glanced at him. What was he asking?

"If we can identify him without the skull… is this just because you can?"

She sensed rather than heard the implication of 'showing off', but didn't quite know what to do with that.

"I do it because I can, yes," she said absently, blindly reaching for the next fragment. "And because it's… right."

"Right?"

"It's an ingrained trait of humanity to attach to visual identity, to faces. We've had to develop that trait as we evolved and our other senses… scent and hearing especially, diminished."

"You're hiding behind anthropology again."

"I'm not hiding."

She took the next piece, turned it over and around, set it back down in favour of another piece. Applied glue. Nestled it into place.

It wasn't until she'd finished the occipital section of the skull that she realised he was still watching. She'd forgotten about him for a moment, but he was still there, watching her face, not her hands. She couldn't place the expression on his face.

She ignored him, continuing her work. Figured that when he'd gotten what he was there for, she would find out – or not. Booth's behaviour mystified her sometimes, and she was coming to terms with that. He wasn't always guided by ratio.

It only occurred to her now that he might be just as mystified by her sometimes. She'd thought he instinctively understood what motivated people, but perhaps this was how he learned – by observing them and asking questions just like he was doing now.

"Are you studying me?"

He frowned.

"I guess I am."

She reached for the next fragment, turned it around a few times, put it back in favour of its neighbour.

"Why?"

"Look, Bones, I'm sorry I... I upset you."

"I'm not a sociopath."

"I know that."

"I hate it when you make me sound like one."

"Maybe I don't understand you as well as I thought I did."

She looked up in surprise at that admission, and their eyes locked. He was smiling slightly, that confident expression that seemed to say that he was sure he'd figure her out before long.

"And you're going to follow me around and look over my shoulder until you do?" she said finally, holding his gaze, smiling a little herself now.

"Maybe. You _are_ doing it to me..."

"In that case, pass the cotton swabs?"

As he handed them over, her eyes met his for a brief moment, and she had a sudden, inexplicable notion that things would turn out okay between them. That they could grow to like one another. Then she dismissed such a vague and unquantifiable idea as emotional wishful thinking. But while she afforded the idea no value, she did not forget it.

"Thank you," she said, smiling slightly.

"You're welcome."

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END


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